


Here at the Starlight

by Jane0Doh



Category: Control (Video Game), Criminal Minds (US TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural (TV) Fusion, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, M/M, Multiple Crossovers, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:28:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24862333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jane0Doh/pseuds/Jane0Doh
Summary: Dean returns from Purgatory with a plan. Unfortunately, that plan didn't include being gone for nearly a decade. And it certainly didn't account for his brother moving on with his life in a way he didn't expect.However, underneath the normal, mundane life Sam has seemingly built for himself, lies a sinister secret that threatens to derail it completely.And Sam's unassuming, dorky husband seems to be at the centre of it.
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Sam Winchester
Comments: 23
Kudos: 138





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I have a one track mind. Once I get an idea in my head, I need to get it out, or it consumes everything I do. Unfortunately, that burns me out, as it did with my last (unfinished) series... and it takes me years to recover from it. Hopefully, this won't happen this time around, because this strange little head cannon I've come up with has fascinated me since it popped into my noggin, and it won't let me go.
> 
> You can tell I have strange OTP's... always have, always will. But this Sam/Spencer series is a labour of love, one that has me weaving a web across not one, not two, but THREE fandoms, creating a strange fusion fic that takes place in a combo Supernatural/Control universe, with some Criminal Minds jammed in there. 
> 
> Hopefully, some of y'all like it. It's gonna be strange. There's going to be some odd writing styles, some flashbacks, and a lot of drama, and I will be updating the tags as things arise, not to spoil any of the twists and turns (of which there will be many).
> 
> I don't know if I will be continuing the Hand of God series. As of right now, I don't think I will- I got burnt out hard, and just looking at the works in progress gives me palpitations and shuts me down creatively. However, I hope this will serve as a nice replacement, and who knows! Maybe I can return to it in the future.
> 
> Now, to surmise this series as best I can: One part cosmic horror, one part love story, Here at the Starlight picks up TEN YEARS after Dean gets blasted away to Purgatory. It tells the story of Sam and Spencer, how they met, fell in love, and built a life together. It tells the story of Dean, and how he struggles to find his place in his brothers life after such a long absence. And it tells a tale of secrets and heartbreak, as it is revealed the depth of secrets Sam and Spencer have been keeping from each other throughout the years. 
> 
> Enjoy!

His first night in Purgatory, Dean Winchester made a plan.

First thing when he got out, he’d grab a greasy meal and long, scalding hot shower.

Then he’d find Sam.

It was a plan that got him through the first agonizing nights in that hellscape. Alone, separated from Cas and hunted from all sides, the promise of creature comforts and seeing his baby brother again kept him going.

When he met Benny, he made some necessary adjustments.

First, he’d drop Benny off at the nearest rest stop.

Second, he’d get his shower and some grub.

Then he’d find Sam.

He repeated these steps to himself like a mantra, so that every step he took served to beat them into his head. They propelled him onwards, searching for this elusive portal that his new vampire friend (if only dad could see him now) promised would lead him to freedom.

Ditch Benny.

Shower and grub.

Sam.

So, when he finally emerged from that hellish place, spat out after ten long years, Dean didn’t have time to mourn what he had lost.

He had a _plan._

He offloaded Benny in Clayton, Louisiana. Grabbed a shower and a greasy breakfast in Whitefish, Montana. Steps one and two off without a hitch. Hell, he was even able to catch the first decent nights sleep he’d had since he got whisked away to Oz by exploding Dick. He woke up bright eyed, bushy tailed, and ready for step three.

Who would have guessed it would be the one to give him trouble?

Sammy was never that hard to find, least not for Dean. He knew the number to every one of his burner phones by memory, and Rufus only had so many hideout’s stashed across the country. But when all his phones went straight to voicemail, or to an automated message telling him they were out of service, Dean found himself at a loss. He’d spent two months skipping across state lines, hitting up backwater cabins and Bobby’s safehouses, and aside from running into the odd hunter here or there, Dean was still striking out.

On a whim, Dean stopped by Jody’s, hoping she might know where Sam was, but even she was out of the loop. According to her, once the Leviathan were dealt with, Sam packed his bags and headed out east. He didn’t tell her where he was headed, but she mentioned thinking he didn’t rightly know, himself.

“He was up the creek without a paddle,” she said. “Without you, Bobby, or Cas, I don’t think he knew who he was, anymore.”

That’s when the panic set in. Just because the Leviathan were gone, didn’t mean the rest of their enemies went with them. What about Kevin, and the tablet? What about Crowley? There was a short list of named nemeses that would have loved an opportunity to get the jump on Sam, especially when he was grieving and alone. And that short list was followed by a gigantic fucking novel of every single monster on the continental United States. If no one had heard from Sam in the years Dean had been in Purgatory, then who was to say what had happened to him?

Best case scenario, Sam found somewhere to settle down. Probably a frilly little B&B out in the Berkshires.

But how often did they get the best case?

So, Dean called up all his old hunter contacts, friends, allies, hell, even enemies. Anyone who might have an inkling of where his brother was. He went to visit _Garth_ for god’s sake, though since he’d taken up the mantle of assistant hunter manager in Bobby’s absence, he was probably the most useful of all of them. Still, the only thing Garth was able to tell him was Sam wasn’t hunting anymore, least not in a way that had him popping up on the hunter radar.

Sam was a ghost, and had been for ten years.

Dean hit a wall.

He’d tried everything, used every method within his means, and still, he couldn’t do the _last_ thing he promised himself he would when he got topside. And he realized, as he was sitting in a beat-up motel room outside of Savanna, Georgia, that this must be how Sam had felt when Dean and Cas got blasted to Purgatory.

Alone. Useless. Helpless.

It was a shitty feeling. At least in Purgatory, he had a purpose. He had drive, ambition… he had his _plan_. And it was attainable. But here? Everything he did, every swing he took, he struck out. Sam was either dead, or somewhere far outside of Dean’s reach, and he’d probably never see him again.

What now?

Defeated, exhausted, and quite drunk, Dean decided to give it one last hail Mary.

He hunched over Bobby’s ancient laptop, opened his browser window, and Googled “Sam Winchester.”

And lo and behold, there he was…

Sam Winchester: University Archivist and Associate Research Scholar, at the Special Collection Center of the NYU Library.

_New York City._

Jesus, he’d only been joking about the Berkshires.

Dean _hated_ New York with a passion. It was loud, and crowded. The people were nasty at worst, flippant at best, you couldn't drive in Manhattan unless you wanted to bump off pedestrians or get car jacked, and you couldn’t see the freaking sky unless you were in the slums or at the damn fish packers. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out why Sam would pick New York City to get a real job, or go back to school, or whatever the hell “Associate Research Scholar” meant… something nerdy, no doubt.

Still, as he packed up his meagre belongings into the beater he’d bought off a friend of Garth’s (she was no Baby, that’s for sure), Dean was cautiously hopeful.

Hopeful that he’d roll up on his little brother in America’s armpit, and find him thriving in a way he hadn’t since Dean dragged him away from Palo Alto, all those years ago.

Hopeful that in the _ten years_ Dean was stuck in Purgatory, Sam had managed to eke out some semblance of peace.

And, hopeful that Sam hadn't sold his freaking car.

He arrived in New York within a day, and after a bit of sweet talking, managed to get Sam’s address from the registrar. He balked when she asked if he wouldn’t rather see him at his office; when was the last time a Winchester had an _office_? Maybe sometime in the 30’s? And while she was busy with her computer, looking for Sam’s home address, Dean couldn’t help but feel a tentative swell of pride.

He had no idea what the hell it was that Sam was doing here, or what he was studying, or teaching, or whatever. But he had an _office_ , and presumably a desk. He was employed, here, in this old, giant building, and he wasn’t scrubbing the toilets or nothing, either. Whatever he’d done when Dean was gone, he had to hand it to him: Sammy went and made something of himself.

Despite getting horribly lost on the way (how the hell was he supposed to find a specific tall, brown building amongst a sea of identical tall, brown buildings?), he arrived at Sam’s apartment in the East Village just before five o’ clock. It sat above a shuttered bar, across the street from a large, bustling park, and Dean hiked up the seven flights of fire escape stairs to Sam’s window, somehow avoiding having the cops called on him as he slipped inside.

Leave it to his brother to keep his apartment window unlocked.

It was a small place, Dean mused as he looked around, dropping his duffle to the floor. It was just one long room with a kitchen attached, and a hall that probably led off to a bedroom of some sort. An aged fireplace, out of commission and bricked up, sat across from an L-shaped, dark brown sofa, covered in blankets and pillows that were piled into a human sized nest. A dining table and set of chairs stood between him and the front door, which was adorned with five ( _this fucking city, man_ ) deadbolts and locks. Another table beside the door, this one with a bowl for keys, and a coat rack on the opposite wall. It was sparsely decorated, but nice… not fancy, but homey. Comfortable.

Still, it didn’t feel like his brother lived there. For one, it was too messy. Sam was a neat freak, a trait he must have inherited from their mother, because Dean and John were slobs. And while this apartment had clearly been vacuumed recently, and there wasn’t trash strewn about, it was cluttered. There were books stacked haphazardly on every flat surface, the coffee table blanketed in a sea of magazines and academic journals. And there were pens literally _everywhere_ , like Sam was rooming with an amnesiac who needed to jot down what they were doing every five feet, or they’d forget where they were.

A roommate would make sense, Dean mused as he shuffled around the sofa. There were four chairs at the table, but two of them were pulled out, like Sam and someone else had sat there for breakfast. One of the coats hanging by the door was way too small for Sam’s gargantuan shoulders and, he thought, picking up one of the nearby books, he’d never known Sam to read about the “Archetypes of the Collective Unconscious.”

Dean dropped it to the table like it burned him.

So, Sam was rooming with another dork.

How cute.

Pulling a face, he wandered into the kitchen, trying to tamp down this sense of growing unease. There was still something so unsettling about this place. It was too regular, too… normal, for Sam. He couldn’t picture his brother wandering down the hall in the morning in his PJ’s, making one of his gross smoothies and kicking his feet up at the table with the morning paper. It didn’t seem right.

It didn’t seem like him.

Dean pulled open the door to the fridge, fully admitting to snooping now, and helped himself to a bottle of beer. At least his brother’s tastes hadn’t changed there, though they were nestled amongst a bundle of something green and leafy, and a carton of _oat milk_.

He made a mental note of the two coffee mugs in the sink as he tossed out the bottle cap, chuffing a laugh at the one that read “Not THAT kind of doctor,” in bubble letters. Clearly not Sam’s, unless he managed to get a PhD in the time Dean had been gone.

Not that far off though, he realized when he moseyed down the hall and through the first door he found. It looked like an office, with a twin bed tucked in the corner, and bookshelves covering nearly every square inch of the walls. From his place by the door, he could see out the large, picture window, the wooden slats cracked and splintering a little with age, to the park across the street. It was a nice view, despite the bums loitering around the fountains, and if it weren’t for the yelling, the car horns, and the sirens, Dean could almost for a moment forget he was in New York.

On the only bare section of wall over the bed, Sam’s three diplomas were framed and hung: his bachelors from Stanford, an MA in Archives and Public History from NYU, and an MS in Library and Information Science from LIU.

Apparently, he _had_ been busy while Dean was gone.

Dean also discovered that Sam’s roommates name was Spencer Reid, thanks to the five ( _five!_ ) diplomas hanging next to Sam’s.

This must be his room, then. Dean looked around, frowning before taking a swig of his beer. No clothes, no computer, not a glass of water on the bedside table, or a rumpled sheet. It didn’t look like a bedroom, if he were being honest. It looked like an office that doubled as a guest room when company came over. But there was clearly another person living here.

Curiosity peaked, Dean made his way into the next room over.

Well, here’s where all the clothes lived. Again, it wasn’t like they were piled all over the floor, but they were jammed into the dresser, flung over an armchair, and packed into the closet like sardines. Not like Sam at all, but Dean could pick out his side of the closet immediately because of it. Sam’s clothes were all neatly folded and hung up, whereas this Spencer seemed to just close his eyes and toss his clothes in a ball, hoping they landed on hangers instead of the floor.

He had to wonder why they seemed to share a closet, when there was a near empty one in the other room, but when the sound of keys jangling and a lock being unlatched heralded Sam’s return, Dean didn’t have time to dwell.

“Spence, you home?” Sam called from the door.

Now or never. Polishing off his beer and tamping down his nerves, Dean left the empty bottle on the nightstand for Sam to deal with later, and stalked into the hallway.

He looked older; Dean observed from the end of the darkened hall. Lines fanned out from the corners of Sam’s eyes, and his boyish dimples seemed now permanently fixed to his cheeks. The hair was still there, only now it seemed longer, curling under his ears towards his jaw, where his bangs were tucked behind his ears. He was wearing a suit, unironically. And, much to Dean’s delight, he seemed wider around the middle—not by much, and he probably still ate like a rabbit, but softened with age, a hereditary thing they both seemed to inherit from John. 

If he had any doubt about how long he’d been in Purgatory, seeing his brother now— rolling his stiff shoulders and checking his mail in his middle-class apartment— dismissed them.

Sam’s senses had clearly dulled over the years of not hunting; the Sam he knew would have reacted to Dean’s presence immediately. As it was, Dean managed to get within three feet of his brother before he noticed his shoulders tensing, a tell-tale sign that Sam had finally realized something was amiss.

No matter. By the time had got his fists up and spun around, Dean had already splashed him in the face with a vial of holy water.

Sam sputtered, wiping furiously at his eyes. “Dean!? How—”

Dean cut him off with a mouthful of Borax, which Sam promptly belched onto the floor.

“I’m not Leviathan,” Sam protested, wincing in pain as Dean grabbed his arm with one hand, and sliced it with a silver knife with the other, in the same second, “or a shifter!”

Snatching his arm back, Sam clapped his hand over his newly ruined sleeve to stop the bleeding. Dean went through the steps himself, splashing himself with holy water and Borax, knowing just by the look Sam was giving him that he wasn’t going to participate.

It was when he pressed the blade to his arm that Sam reached out to stop him. “Wait, Dean,” he said, gripping Dean’s wrist and guiding the knife from his forearm, “can I just say hello?”

Grimacing, Dean shook him off. “Dammit, Sammy!”

That’s what happens, he thought as he sliced his own arm, quickly wrapping it with one of the cloth napkins he snatched off the table. That’s what happens when you stop hunting for ten freaking years. You go soft, you start making stupid mistakes, and you don’t realize when someone has _broken into your apartment_. He half wondered how Sam had managed to make it this long without him.

But it was inevitable.

Sam never wanted to be a hunter.

It was no wonder he got out the second he saw an opportunity.

“Well,” Dean said, tucking the knife back into his beltloop, “lets do this.”

Neither of them moved. Sam stood stunned, staring wide eyed like he’d seen a ghost. Which wasn’t entirely inaccurate. As far as Sam knew, Dean was dead, and judging by the way he was getting misty eyed, his breathing shallow and high in his throat, he’d mourned Dean a long time ago. He probably wasn’t expecting him to show up suddenly, unannounced and in the flesh.

“I don’t know whether to hug you, or take a shower,” Sam said, his voice cracking to belie his calm. He wrung out his tie, the Borax/holy water cocktail bubbling and dripping to the floor.

Dean chuckled. He’d need to make the first move, as usual. Fanning his arms out to his sides, he waved him in, “Come here.”

Instantly, Sam crumpled, folding himself down and enveloping Dean in his arms, gripping his shoulders so tight his leather jacket creaked under the strain. “You’re alive,” Sam breathed, “how?” He pulled back, holding Dean at arms length, “I mean, what the hell happened?”

Rolling his shoulders, Dean ducked out of Sam’s grasp. “I guess standing too close to exploding Dick sends your ass straight to Purgatory.”

“So, you _were_ in Purgatory.”

Pulling up a seat at the table, Dean quirked a brow.

“Crowley told me,” Sam explained, joining him, “after you and Cas disappeared. I think he wanted to rub my nose in it, one last time.”

“He hasn’t bothered you since?”

Sam shook his head.

“Damn.” Dean whistled lowly. That was odd, right? He would have figured Crowley would be chomping at the bit to get his mitts on Sam.

“You were there this whole time?” Sam asked, steamrolling past Dean’s detour, and getting them back on track, “The past ten years, you were in Purgatory.”

“Yup.” Damn, he needed another beer. He shrugged, “Time flies when you’re running for your life.”

With a long, disbelieving sigh, Sam slumped back in his seat. He pushed his dripping hair back from his face, pinning Dean to his seat with his gaze. He was staring, unblinking, like if he looked away for even a second, Dean would disappear.

“Hey,” Dean said, leaning forwards and grabbing Sam’s hand on the table between them, “I’m not in your head, okay? I’m real.”

“It’s been _so long_ , Dean.”

“I know.”

“I don’t even know where to start, what to tell you first, I—”

“Look,” Dean stood up suddenly, the chair scraping across the floor, and Sam, the poor bastard, nearly jumped out of his skin, “I think we could both do with a drink.”

Sam nodded, and went to stand, but Dean waved him back down. “I got it,” he said, and sauntered into the kitchen.

Truth be told, he needed a break as much as his brother did. His pulse raced as he pulled two bottles out of the fridge, and when Sam called out, “There’s whiskey over the stove,” he damn near had an infarction. None of his dreaming, his planning, could have prepared him for the reality of seeing his brother after a decade apart. After not knowing whether he was alive or dead. Everything he’d done over the past few month’s topside had been fixed on finding Sam, and now that he was here, the bubble had burst.

All that anxiety, anger, confusion, and relief that had been pushed down and buried below the goal post, now was roiling up to the surface. He had so many questions to ask, but they stuck in his throat, each fighting for precedence and none of them the victor.

Hopefully, whiskey would loosen his tongue.

Placing two glasses down on the table, he poured them both a drink. Dean watched, bemused as Sam knocked his back in one gulp, instantly pouring himself another. He was just as frazzled as Dean; he was just worse at hiding it.

“Well?” Dean asked.

“Well, what?”

Gesturing with his glass, Dean said, “What do you want to know?”

“How did you get out?” he asked, stumbling his words in a rush.

“I guess whoever built that box didn't want me in there any more than I did.”

“What does that mean?” Sam frowned.

“It means I got tossed out through an interdimensional wormhole, SS. Enterprise not included.”

Sam chuckled, sipping his drink more leisurely this time. “What about Cas?”

“I don’t know,” Dean said. “I looked for him. For years, apparently. But he’s either a hide and seek champ, or he didn’t end up in the same place I did.”

“Did it feel like years?” Sam asked, leaning closer.

“No,” Dean shook his head. “It felt like eternity.”

Someone laughed across the road in the park, and siren went off in the distance. Sam tapped nervously on his glass, and Dean topped his up, the silence stretching out uncomfortably. He should say something—ask Sam a question about his life here, about what he’d been up to in Dean’s absence. He really meant to, but when he finally opened his mouth, what came tumbling out was, “You quit hunting?”

Sam scoffed, like he knew that was coming. “Yeah,” he said, “I did.”

“Why?”

Glancing around the room, like the walls themselves might give him the answer, Sam replied, “You were dead. Cas and Bobby? Dead. Everyone I loved was gone, as far as I knew, and hunting was the thing that took them from me.”

“I wasn’t dead,” Dean bit out.

“I didn’t know that.”

“But you looked for me, right?”

Dean didn’t know what he expected. But it sure as hell wasn’t radio silence, or the guilty way Sam shifted in his seat, looking everywhere _but_ him. “Right?”

When Sam finally glanced his way, Dean had his answer.

He nodded. “Good,” he said, downing his whiskey and standing up from the table, needing to put a couple feet between them lest he throttle his brother, “That's good. Now, we – we always told each other _not_ to look for each other.”

“Dean, come on—”

“Of course,” Dean interrupted, spinning on his heel, “we always ignored that because of our deep, abiding love for one another, but not this time, right, Sammy?”

If Sam sank down any lower, he’d be sitting on the floor. With a sound of disgust, Dean slammed his glass down on the coffee table, knocking over a few magazine’s in the process. He stooped to pick them up, not because he felt like doing Sam any favours, but because he needed _something_ practical to do with his hands, else… well, the throttling.

“Hey Sammy,” he said, lifting a college alumnus magazine from the floor, “what about Kevin?”

Knowing better than to draw it out this time, Sam walked over to where Dean was, sitting at the edge of the couch. “I don’t know,” he said, trying to help before Dean waved him off, “I looked for him, afterwards. We split up in Sucrocorp—he said something about the creamers killing the skinny people, and how we needed to blow them up.”

Dean ticked a brow.

“He didn’t explain. But he _did_ blow the place up. I barely managed to get out before the building came down.”

“And you… what?” Dean stood, dropping the magazines back on the table, “Dug through the rubble?”

“No,” Sam said, “there were Fed’s everywhere, almost immediately. I hopped in the Impala and took off.”

“FBI?”

“I guess they were on to Dick, and when the place exploded, they swarmed.” He sighed, leaning his elbows on his knees, looking up at Dean earnestly from beneath his brow, “I went back the next day, when the coast was clear. But by then, there was no sign of Kevin.”

“And let me guess… you didn’t look for him, either?”

Sam shook his head.

Bile churned in Dean’s gut.

He’d never been more disappointed in his whole damn life.

“Ten years,” he said through gritted teeth, “and you couldn’t be bothered to put up the bat signal? What if something happened to him? What if Crowley got him, or—or if he was hurt? He could still be out there, trapped, or worse, and you are the _only person_ who knows he exists!”

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but thought better of it. His jaw clenching, he sank into the couch, and stared past Dean to the cracked open window. He smiled slowly, and shook his head, “You didn’t think to close the window?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not,” Sam said, tapping his fingers against his empty glass, “I’m just buying time. I don’t know how to explain this to you in a way that’s not going to sound… stupid.”

With a huff, Dean flopped onto his butt on the floor, leaning back against the coffee table with his legs unfolded before him. He waved his hands permissively in front of him, before letting them fall to his lap.

“I know you’ve been through a lot,” Sam spoke slowly, carefully parsing his words like the smart kid that he was. He knew Dean was a powder keg now; best not strike a match. “And I can only imagine how hard these past years have been for you. But I need you to understand that in a very different way, things weren’t easy for me, either.”

Bullshit, Dean thought, clicking his tongue derisively.

“I looked for Kevin for a while, but when I found no sign of him, when I didn’t hear from him, I figured he either found his way back to his mom, or he went off grid.” Sam ran a hand over his face, pushing his hair back from his eyes, “And I needed to leave. I couldn’t stay there and dwell—”

“So, you just abandoned your post?”

“Jesus Christ, Dean!” Surging up from his seat, Sam paced back towards the kitchen. “We’re not soldiers,” he said, throwing his hands out in frustration, “and hunting isn’t a job! It’s a community service, at best. And it took _everything_ from me!”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Me, me, me,” he griped, climbing to his feet. He grabbed the whiskey off the table, forgoing the glass and taking a swig straight from the bottle. “You know, for someone who’s got a nice job, a swanky apartment— someone who’s not been hunted like a damn dog for the past decade— you sure do bitch a _lot_.”

Oh, he struck a nerve. Sam positively _seethed_ , and Dean watched his hackles raise with a detached interest. Good. He was being a baby. Maybe a reality check is what he needed.

“I’m not going to apologize for having a life!” Sam snapped, “I was lost without you, Dean. You were my whole world, and then just like that— you were gone. But I met someone who showed me I either needed to do something about it, or move on. And since I couldn't bring you back, that’s what I did. I moved on.”

“You could have done something.” Dean said, meeting Sam’s frustrated glare with one of his own, “You could have looked for me.”

“I—what!?” Sam threw his hands up in the air, “Are you fucking kidding me? I thought you were _dead_ , why would I—”

The door swung open, cutting Sam off in a hurry. A tall, slender man with a wild mop of hair, crazier than Sam’s (amazingly), came rushing through the door in a flurry of movement. Dean barely got a look at him before he ducked into the kitchen, his arms laden with grocery bags, but he was dressed similarly to Sam: business casual, complete with sweater vest. Though interestingly, Dean was certain he saw the flash of a badge on the man’s hip.

A loud thump, the door slamming shut on its own, preceded the sound of those grocery bags hitting the kitchen counter. Dean glanced curiously around the corner, trying to get a peek at this strange intruder, when he caught sight of Sam’s… well, simply put, _terrified_ face. 

He looked caught between abject horror and constipation. His brow drew together in that squiggly little way it did when he was thinking real hard, and his lips were pursed past the point of comfort. He stood awkwardly, his feet parted and leaning forwards, like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to go and greet this mystery dude, or run into his room and slam the door. And when he looked up at Dean, it was with such panic in his eyes that it took Dean by surprise.

It’s just his roommate, why would he…?

And then Dean finally saw it—the glaring bit of evidence wrapped around Sam’s left ring finger.

Oh.

_Oh_.

“Sam,” called Sam’s freaking _husband_ from the kitchen, “why did Gus across the street tell me he saw a man climbing through our window?”

Dean held his arms out in askance, furrowing his brow at Sam in a silent plea for direction. What should he do? Hide in the damn bedroom?

Sam shrugged back, his voice wavering as he answered, “Because he’s meth head, Spencer. He also said you had psychic worms hanging out of your ears.”

“Yeah,” Spencer called from the kitchen, cabinet doors creaking and containers rattling as he put the groceries away, “that was odd. But he seemed so serious this time, I don’t know. Did you notice anything missing, or…?”

His footsteps heralded him walking into the living room, both Sam and Dean turning to look at him as he trailed off mid-sentence. Spencer, with his big, wide eyes and willowy figure, didn’t paint an intimidating picture at first glance, despite the definite badge on his hip. But the way he glanced around the room— from Sam’s damp hair and pained expression, to the soapy puddle of Borax on the floor, the duffle bag Dean left by the open window, to Dean himself, standing with a half empty bottle of whiskey in the middle of his home—spoke to a keen intelligence. He seemingly pieced the events of the last hour, from Dean breaking in, to ambushing Sam, and so on, together in a matter of seconds.

And was completely unfazed. Spencer crossed his arms over his chest, leaning nonchalantly against the wall beside him as quirked a brow at Sam and asked, “Should I get my gun?”

Dean laughed, a short snort of amusement that cut off when Sam shot him a wicked glare.

“That won’t be necessary,” Sam said, though Spencer didn’t look convinced.

“So, he’s not a burglar?”

“No,” Dean answered, “he’s not.”

“He’s my brother.”

Both Dean and Spencer looked at Sam in surprise, though probably for very different reasons. Dean hadn’t expected Sam to just come out and say it like that, and Spencer…

“Your brother's dead,” Spencer said, matter of factly.

“Apparently not,” Sam replied.

Well, this was awkward. They stared at each other, exchanging microscopic expressions, and Dean shuffled on the spot, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he observed Sam and Spencer’s silent conversation. The look Spencer was giving his brother was one Dean had seen on the faces of many a pissed-off girlfriend: part confused, part hurt, the rest murderous intent. And Sam, quiet though he was, could only droop his shoulders and give him the cows eyes, because really, what else could he say?

Hey honey, my dead brother just popped out of Purgatory and decided to drop us a visit?

Whatever Sam was doing however, seemed to be working. Spencer’s furrowed brow softened, and he glanced at Dean. “You’re staying for dinner, then?” he said, and Dean knew it wasn’t a question.

Stammering, Dean looked to Sam for the answer, but he was struck dumb. “I don’t know,” Dean managed to eke out, “I don’t want to put you out, and I’ve got a lot of driving to do.”

Spencer frowned, “You’ve been gone for ten years, you can stay for one dinner.” Leaving no room for argument, Spencer turned around, grabbing a pen and some paper from the little table by the front door. “I forgot a few things at the grocery store,” he said, no longer talking to Dean, but his husband, who was already creeping towards him, probably looking to talk him out of his ill-timed dinner invitation. Spencer spun on his heel again, unfazed (seriously, this man was unflappable) that Sam was now standing directly behind him, and pressed the handwritten list to Sam’s chest, “Go to the bodega and grab this for me, will you? Take Dean. I’m going to change.”

“Spence,” Sam murmured, taking the note but not moving away, “I don’t think Dean wants to—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Spencer waved him off, brushing past Dean with a forced indifference, though Dean could see his lackadaisical front starting to crack as he hurried towards the solitude of their bedroom. Sam stammered after him, but Spencer cut him off by slamming the behind him, shouting, “Be back by seven!”

The shower turned on almost immediately, Sam sighed, running a hand over his eyes, and pinching the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath, then shoved the list Spencer gave him in pocket and picked up his jacket. Waving Dean to follow him, he said, “I guess you’re staying for dinner then.”

He’d been planning on sleeping in his car, then driving back to Sioux Falls. But since he got out of Purgatory, it seemed the universe took sadistic glee in turning his plans on their heads. And while the last thing he wanted to do was sit down to a meal with his brother whom he was furious with, and his surprise husband, that seemed to be what he was in for. 

If Purgatory taught him anything, it’s that what you _want_ to do is not necessarily what you’re _going_ to do.

“Guess so,” he said, following Sam out the front door.

Least he was getting a home cooked meal out of it. 


	2. A Plan

_Starlight Motel and Diner_

_Sweetwater, TN_

_Sam knew, from the moment he saw them coming up the I-75, that fleet of black vans was headed towards him._

_He recognized them. Not the specific vans, but the make and model. He’d seen them several times, usually handcuffed in the back seat whenever Dean or himself managed to get on the FBI’s radar. They were standard federal issue, the plates blacked out, and the windows tinted to near opacity._

_What he didn’t know was why four government vehicles were pulling into the Starlight Motel, on the outskirts of Sweetwater, Tennessee._

_Sitting inside the motel’s sweltering office, Sam took his feet down off the counter, leaning forwards in his seat to watch as they drove into the parking lot. Like ants, all four vans followed one after the other, keeping perfect time and distance between them, only breaking formation to park at the far end of the lot._

_Curious beyond the point of self-preservation, Sam didn’t think for a moment they’d be after him. As far as the US government was concerned, Sam was a ghost, and for the past four months, he’d done nothing close to illegal. Not even a little B &E. He’d kept his nose clean, working above board at the motel. So, they couldn’t be there for him._

_Was Roy up to something?_

_Wheeling his chair over to the office door, Sam rapped at it with his knuckles. “Roy,” he called, a little louder than necessary, since Roy was probably dead asleep, “you might want to come out here.”_

_He heard a loud thump through the wall, and Roy groaning, cursing up a storm as he pulled himself from his cot. He’d be a while yet, if his grumbling was any indication, and Sam couldn’t tear his gaze away from those vans, even if he wanted._

_The whiny air conditioner in the window, the fans on the ceiling, and the cranky old radio on the corner of his desk created a perfect storm of white noise, so much that even though the windows at the front of the office were wide open, Sam couldn’t hear a thing outside. He could see, however, all four doors of all four vans pop open, his suspicions confirmed as a gang of men in black clambered out._

_They looked like your standard federal agents, most of them. Dark suits, sunglasses, earpieces, and a badge. ATF, FBI, FDA… same look, different name. Some loitered outside the vans, lighting cigarettes, or chatting, but a few splintered off, to the right and left of their caravan, securing a perimeter._

_His heart dropped. He hadn’t seen any fuck-off looking guns, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. And he_ still _didn’t know what they were there for. Maybe just a stop on the road, but he couldn’t say for certain, and he sure as hell didn’t feel like getting into a shoot out today._

_“Roy!” he shouted again._

_This time, the door swung open immediately, knocking into the wall, the knob nestling into the hole in the drywall Roy made the first time he slammed it open—probably sometime in the 60’s. And out came his boss, blearily wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his tee shirt, his little, stumbling steps as comical then as they were when Sam first saw them._

_He was a short, portly man with a deep, receding hairline, sparse on top and long in the back, the former he kept covered under a trucker hat. He was never without a grease stained tee, given his hobby of fixing up stock cars in his free time, and he wore the same pair of jeans, day after day, without fail. And despite looking like he didn’t give a rat’s ass, he had a kindly face, warm green eyes, and a slow smile, his cheeks and nose dappled red from the sun._

_He didn’t look to kindly right then, though._

_“What,” he snapped, twisting his cap around on his head, pulling the brim to the back, “in God’s good name are you fuckin’ hollering about!?”_

_Sam merely pointed out the window._

_Roy stepped a few inches closer, leaning over the counter and squinting to get a better look, having left his glasses in the office. The moment he got a good look at their new guests, he paled. Turning to Sam, he asked sincerely, “What did you get yourself into?”_

_Sam held his hands up in defense, “I didn’t do anything.”_

_Clicking his tongue, Roy bobbed his head to the side, “Yeah, I know you ain’t. Little teachers’ pet, you’d probably have to call ‘em to get the feds to notice you.”_

_He chuckled at just how untrue that was, but didn’t say anything. As far as Roy knew he was a drifter, but he put in a full day’s work, kept to himself, and didn’t make trouble. He didn’t need to know that Sam had, at one point, been on every most wanted list from here to Canada._

_“What are they doing?” Sam asked, but he wasn’t particularly listening. His interest was now piqued by two agents who didn’t seem to fit in with the rest, who just climbed out of the back of the last van._

_The first was a slender blonde woman, wearing a pair of blue jeans and a button-down shirt. She had her shades pushed up on her head, her gun on her hip, and an easy grin, teasing the other oddity standing beside her. She was pretty, and young… she looked like she’d stepped out of a southern Cali gym, rather than a government vehicle._

_The second, who was clearly being cajoled by this young woman, but taking it in good-natured stride, was a tall, elegant man. He was even younger than the first, with boyish good looks and a mop of tousled brown hair, and stuck out like a sore thumb in his trousers and sweater vest. He was lanky, his body language awkward, like he knew he didn’t belong there. He looked more like an assistant professor than an agent._

_“I don’t know kid,” Roy said, patting Sam on the back and pointing back out the window, as though Sam had looked away for even a second, “but we’re gonna find out.”_

_Wouldn’t you know it, the first agents to break off from the pack, walking towards the office with intent, were the two who didn’t fit in._

_The bell on the door jangled as the woman pushed her way inside. She paused, smiling from Sam to Roy as she waited for the tall guy to join her. “Hello, guys,” she said good naturedly, “how are we doing today?”_

_Sam stood up from his chair, hoping to intersect before Roy put his foot in his mouth—but he was too late._

_Jumping in head of him, Roy waved his hand at the vans in the parking lot, as though they were a particularly offensive smell, and not a collective hundred tons of metal. “We don’t have enough rooms for all of you, and we don’t do double ups.”_

_“Oh, that’s alright,” the young woman said, unbothered by Roy’s peevishness, “We only need two singles, if you have them.”_

_“We called ahead.” The woman turned to the young man when he spoke up, quirking her brow. He’d just snuck in behind her, closing the door gently instead of letting it slam shut like everyone else did. He walked past her to the counter, laying his hands flat and tapping his fingers off the Formica surface. “Reid and Jareau?” he said to Sam, gesturing with a pointed finger to his open appointment book._

_Sam looked down at his schedule, and hey, there they were. “You’re early,” was all he could manage, and the man in front of him smiled shyly._

_“Yeah,” he said, his eyes squinting as he grinned, a sunny kind of smile that transformed his whole face, “these guys drive like they’re on fire.”_

_Roy shuffled over to Sam’s side, peeking down at the appointment in question, which Sam pointed to patronizingly. He scoffed, smacking Sam’s hand away, and leered up at the young man. “Who are y’all, and what are you doing here?”_

_Sam huffed, glancing over at Roy exasperatedly. He was acting like a tool, which was massively suspicious on its own, and while the young man didn’t seem taken aback by his attitude, the woman wasn’t impressed._

_She pulled a badge out of her pocket, snapping it open as she stepped forwards, standing shoulder to shoulder with her partner and she shoving it toward Roy. “Special Agent Jennifer Jareau, FBI. This is my partner, Dr. Spencer Reid,” she said, letting Roy leer at her badge to his hearts content, “we’re investigating a case in Sweetwater, and will be staying here for the next three months.”_

_Roy pursed his lips as she slipped the badge back into her pocket. “Three months,” he said, nudging Sam with is elbow, “don’t we have a different fee for long-term? What are you paying?”_

_“I’m not,” Sam murmured, not sure if Roy understood that their arrangement, Sam working at the motel for room and board, was technically illegal, “but yeah, it’s 900 per room, per month.”_

_“Brilliant,” Jennifer said, slapping a curious looking black credit card on the counter, “you can hold on to that.”_

_The young man (Spencer, his name was Spencer) perked up, still tapping his fingers absently on the counter. “Where are our rooms?” he asked, then added, “Side by side, if possible.”_

_Knowing if he gave Roy the chance, he’d object just for the sake of being contrarian, Sam grabbed their keys off the pegboard behind him. “Follow me,” he said, quickly ushering the two agents out of the office. They followed without any preamble, although he did hear Roy scoff on their way out, and Sam would be willing to bet Jennifer, who seemed like the type to take no shit and do it with a smile, probably got one last jab in before the door closed._

_“The only rooms we have left beside each other are on the ground floor,” Sam said as he walked, the agents keeping a brisk pace behind him. He stopped in front of their doors, conveniently side by side, and handed them each a key, “Just check in with me once you get settled, and let me know who’s in which room.”_

_When they both took their keys, he added, “And don’t mind Roy. He’s an ass, but he’s a harmless ass.”_

_Jennifer laughed, brushing her hair back from her face, her bangs already sticking to her forehead with sweat. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, fanning herself with an open palm, “we’ve met worse.”_

_“Thanks for your help,” Spencer chimed in._

_“Well, we should unload,” Jennifer said, and Sam was dismissed. She waved the agents by the vans over._

_His cheeks red from the heat and the beating sun, Spencer asked, “There’s air conditioning, right?”_

_Sam hesitated, unsure if he should tell them the reason they never put people in these rooms was because the air con units were old and unreliable as hell, but apparently his silence was answer enough._

_Spencer tilted his head back and groaned dramatically, brushing past Sam to unlock his door. “Would it kill them to station us somewhere fit for human beings? Just once?”_

_Jennifer patted him on the back pityingly, having had this conversation before. “I know muffin,” she said patronizingly, winking at Sam and waving a quick goodbye. “Think of it this way,” she added, Sam just picking it up as he began walking back to the office, “we’ll be spending most days in the dead letter office, and they’ll definitely have AC. You’ll only be here at night, when its cooler.”_

_“They better,” Spencer griped, finally getting his door open, “how is it hotter here than in the desert?”_

_Back in the office, sheltered from the sun and accosted with a wall of cool, forced air, Sam ignored Roy’s curious look, and went straight to his laptop. He hopped over the counter, flipped his computer open, and brought up his browser, not even bothering to take a seat. Roy watched him as he typed, positively vibrating with anxious energy, barely containing himself as he finally barked out, “Well?”_

_But Sam had something else to focus on, something to pique his interest after the months he’d spent there in mind-numbing monotony. “Hey Roy,” he asked, turning his computer towards the other man, a page from the USPS website pulled up, “since when does Sweetwater have a dead letter office?”_

_And why were the FBI investigating it?_

_“Hey!” Sam protested, as Roy suddenly reached out and slammed his laptop shut, “What the hell?”_

_Before he knew what was happening, Roy had twirled him by the shoulders, grasped both his cheeks in his palms, and pulled his face down to his level, so he could stare him unnervingly in the eye. Sam blinked owlishly at him, face to face with Roy’s rosacea, when Roy told him, his voice serious and steady, “Keep out of it, Sammy.”_

_Sam frowned, his brothers pet name coming out of Roy’s mouth striking a raw nerve._

_“I mean it,” Roy said, not relinquishing his hold on Sam’s face, “you’re a good kid, but remember what I told you when you first came sniffing at my door: you ain’t from here, you don’t belong here, and you ain’t gonna stay here. This is a pit stop for you, alright? So, don’t go getting caught up in a mess that ain’t yours. And don’t go poking around where you don’t belong.” He jostled Sam’s cheeks for emphasis, “You hear me?”_

_He didn’t know why he folded. Maybe it was the genuine concern for his well being, or the fact that Roy reminded him so much of Bobby, with his misplaced paternalism and penchant for harlequin romance novels, but Sam reluctantly agreed._

_Roy patted his cheek, “Atta boy.” He let Sam go, taking his hat off and fanning himself with it. “How long till that little dude comes cryin’ about his window unit not working?” he asked absently._

_Sam shrugged, sinking into his creaky office chair, “Realistically? Thirty minutes, tops.”_

_Throwing his head back, Roy cackled towards the ceiling, griping something about city folk as he slapped his hat back on his head and went into his office, slamming the door behind him._

_He’d be out like a light in just a few minutes, but Sam didn’t wait that long. He gave it just a few seconds after the door closed to quietly reopen his laptop, his eyes flying over the page as he helplessly dug into the first mystery to fall into his lap since the Leviathan crawled out of Cas._

_He couldn’t help it; he was a creature of habit. And even though he swore to himself he was_ done _with hunting, he still had a curious streak a mile long. Besides, its not like the FBI were there investigating some haunting at the post office—if anything, it’d be a real crime they were on the tail of, and the thought of an actual criminal paper trail had him practically drooling._

_It was just harmless poking around, Sam told himself as he fell down the rabbit hole._

_Nothing bad ever came from a little Googling._

While it had occurred to him that he could just hop in his car and run, Dean sat where Sam parked him: across from a playground in Tompkins Park, while Sam hit up the bodega at 7th and Avenue A. It was still early enough in the day, still bustling with distracted parents and squealing kids, chasing each other down the slides and back up again. It would be easy for him to cut through the park, duck into the crowd and hit the road.

Its not like Sam would miss him. Judging by the terse silence that followed them on their walk over, Sam had enough to deal with when he got home. Dean leaving would probably be a blessing in disguise. He could talk it over with Spencer, make up some pleasing lie, and then the two of them could sit down to their regularly planned programming, mostly unscathed.

It was curiosity that held him in place. The anger was still there, still righteously simmering just under the surface, but it had dulled some. He was hurt more than mad, and though the thought of his brother going a decade not even bothering to look for him cut like a knife through the gut, he had something less heart wrenching, and more intriguing, to focus on.

His brother was _married_.

To a _man_.

A man who was whip smart, composed, and incredibly passive aggressive, if Dean gleaned anything from their short interaction.

Dean didn’t even know Sam was gay. Never had an inkling. He never mentioned it, never expressed an interest, even when Dean, the freewheeling kind of flirt that he was, would draw his attention to a cute guy on TV, or at a roadside pub. And whenever Sammy would hook up with someone on the road, which was admittedly a rare occurrence, he had a very specific type: tall, busty, blonde _women_.

Spencer was anything but. Sure, Dean had eyes, he could admit he was attractive. He was tall, thin, but not skin and bones. And he had one of the prettiest faces Dean had ever seen in his life, all big, brown doe eyes, and full red lips. He was beautiful, in that he could easily be a model if he weren’t so lanky and awkward.

But Sammy wasn’t a superficial kind of guy; Dean raised him better than that, believe it or not. And he knew in his heart that if Sam decided _this man_ was someone he not only wanted to shack up with, but _marry_ , in sickness and health, and all the death do us part that came with it, then… he must love him. Truly, honestly, deeply love him.

And while yes, he was still angry. And yes, he still wanted to tear Sam a new one, Dean needed to know more.

Because of all the things he missed out on, all the shit he lost while he was in Purgatory, what stung the most was knowing he didn’t get to see _this_ : his baby brother, falling in love, getting married, starting a life with someone outside of hunting, one he chose and built for himself.

That was the worst part.

He _missed_ it.

So, he stayed where Sammy parked him. He may have lost out on a decade of his life, but he’d be damned if he didn’t take this opportunity to play catch up. He wanted to know everything: where they worked, what they did, why they were in New York in the first place. How did they meet? Who made the first move? What embarrassing shit did Sammy pull? And he wanted to get to know Spencer—the stranger, who hadn’t hesitated in strong arming Dean into staying for dinner, despite believing him dead for ten years.

Besides, even if he left, where was he gonna go?

Not like he had a home he was itching to get back to.

He spotted Sam lumbering across the street, his coat draped over his arm and tie hanging loosely around his neck, two coffees in hand. It was freaking hot in this city, Dean mused, shrugging out of his jacket as well. He gave the whole state a wide berth, especially Manhattan, so he’d never had the pleasure of a New York City July, but he could already tell they were awful. The pavement was so hot from the days sun beating down on it, he could see it sweltering at the first kiss of night air.

“Here,” Sam said, thrusting a coffee at him. He motioned Dean to move over and make space for him on the bench, and Dean complied with a grumble. The bench creaked under Sam’s extra weight, and he sighed as he stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles.

He didn’t say anything, still kicking along the old silent treatment, but Dean knew he was just deciding what to say. Sammy was like that—thinking first, acting later—ever the boy scout.

Dean sipped his coffee, expecting it to be swill, and finding himself pleasantly surprised.

Sam smiled, and Dean realized he must have said that out loud. “Spence found the best coffee in the neighbourhood the first week we moved in,” Sam said, “and its right there.” He pointed across the street to a small, hole in the wall bodega.

“When did you move here?” Dean asked, figuring it was as good a start as any.

“Five years ago,” Sam said, waving a hand vaguely to their left, “Spencer’s apartment got a little too cramped for the two of us when I started my PhD. Needed a place with an office. We used to be in the Bronx.”

Dean sniffed, and wrinkled his nose as the smell of hot garbage wafted up from down the street.

Chuckling, Sam shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, that’s the smell of summer in the East Village.”

“Why?” Dean asked, turning incredulously to his brother.

“Why what?”

“Why New York?” Dean shook his head, gesturing around like that would catch Sam up, “You hate big cities. You bitched constantly when dad dragged us to Chicago, and that was only for two weeks! Why would you choose to live here?”

Sam didn’t hesitate in answering, “Spencer lives here.”

Ah, Dean thought as he leaned back.

He should have seen that coming.

“When we met, Spence was on field duty,” Sam explained, playing with the lid of his coffee, “I was driving cross country, doing odd jobs here and there, and he’d call me up every few weeks to let me know where he was staying. I’d meet him, and we’d spend the length of his placement in whatever small town he was stationed in.”

“You followed him around the country?”

“Like a lost puppy,” Sam said with a laugh, “for a whole year.”

“What happened then?”

“He got promoted.” Tucking his hair behind his ear, Sam looked at him sheepishly, “Research and development, what he does now. So, he got taken off the road, and put in a lab full-time.”

“And he asked you to move here?”

“No,” Sam shook his head, “He tried, but I was an idiot. I played it off like I wasn’t absolutely in love with him and broke it off.” When Dean pulled a face at him, he didn’t rush to his own defense, “I know. Stupid. But after a month I realised how badly I fucked up, and the only way to make it right was to do something big, and equally as dumb. So, I packed the Impala and showed up, unannounced, on his doorstep. And the saint that he is, he let me in.”

“And you’ve been here ever since.”

Sam smiled, dropping his chin to his chest in a way that was too boyish and lovestruck for Dean to wrap his head around. In all his years, he’d never seen Sam look so… content. Relaxed. It was almost too much for him to take, and he started to wonder if he should have made his escape after all.

How could he know this kid his entire life, and not remember another time he was this in love?

Dean leaned forwards suddenly, his forgotten coffee sloshing in his hands. “I’m not—” Dean started, clicking his tongue as he struggled to find the words. Sam was giving him that constipated look again, the one that meant he was worrying, and Dean knew exactly what it was that was giving him trouble. He just didn’t know how to articulate it without getting his foot in his mouth.

He breathed deep, ignoring how the smell of the city burned his throat.

“I’m not here trying to cause trouble,” he said, leaning his elbows on his knees, feeling more tired now than he ever did in Purgatory.

“I know, Dean,”

“I don’t want to fight with you, and I don’t want to mess up all of—” he waved his hand vaguely, “this, that you’re so fond of. I’m just…”

“Angry.”

Dean glanced at him, “Disappointed.”

He saw the hurt flash across Sam’s face clear as day; he didn’t try to hide it. Dean may as well have slapped him across the face and called him an asshole while he was at it, but he wasn’t going to mince his words. He expected better of Sam, for both himself and for Kevin, and Sam let him down. Whether or not he was glad that Sam found his happiness, he wasn’t just going to let the rest of it be water under the bridge, bygones to bygones.

He _couldn’t_. Because every time Dean thought for a second that he could just let it go, that it would be easier just to move on… his brain reminded him that his brother forgot him for ten years, left him to wander the wilds of Purgatory alone (well, not really, and thank God for Benny), and didn’t even _try_ to get him out.

And that sting of betrayal was unignorable.

Sam sighed, his shoulders drooped, but he didn’t argue. Dean figured he probably knew that he was the jerk here, too. But he wasn’t going to apologize, he said as much back at his place, and that meant they were at an impasse. The easiest thing to do would be to part ways, however they were Winchester’s—they didn’t do easy, and they didn’t back down.

“That’s fair,” Sam said after the longest minute known to man, “I don’t blame you. And for what its worth, I'm sorry.”

“I know you are,” Dean offered.

Glancing down at his watch, Sam tilted his head in the direction of the street. “Come on,” he said, rising to his feet and brushing off the back of his slacks, “if we’re late, Spence will just have more time to wind himself up.”

Dean frowned, looking around at their feet.

“What?” Sam asked.

“Didn’t you need to pick something up from the store?” Dean replied, and pointed to Sam’s pocket, “The list he gave you.”

Sam’s eyebrows ticked up, and he chuckled, fishing the list out of his pocket. “This?” he said, handing it to Dean, who immediately uncrumpled it, grumbling under his breath. How they hell did Sam manage to get anyone to tie the knot when he could barely remember a simple errand—

Narrowing his eyes, Dean held the paper in both hands as he read aloud, “Talk to your brother. Be home by seven, and bring an explanation. Thanks.”

That last _thanks_ , all by itself at the bottom of the paper, underlined with a period, was laughably blunt. But this was… Dean cast a pitiful glance at Sam, not understanding in the least. “So,” he said slowly, “he didn’t need something from the store?”

Sam rolled his eyes, and snatched the list back. “He’s got an eidetic memory,” he explained, balling up the note and tossing it in a nearby trash can, “he can’t forget _anything_. He just wanted to give us a minute to talk, while also getting us out of his hair so he could stress in peace.”

When Sam started walking down the street without preamble, Dean lumbered after him, needing to jog the first few feet to catch up. “Anything?” he asked, “like, he remembers everything you do, good and bad?”

“He remembers what he ate for breakfast March 3rd, 1995.” Sam gave him a withering look over his shoulder. “And you better believe he’d gonna remember _this_ whole situation,” he said pointing a finger towards Dean, then back towards himself, “till the day he dies.”

Dean whistled in mock sympathy, honestly just to keep from laughing, though he struggled to keep the grin off his face. “I don’t know who’s got the short end of that stick,” he murmured, pleased with himself as he hid his smirk behind his coffee cup, “him, or you.”

“It’s got it’s perks,” Sam replied, not in the mood to elaborate, though Dean didn’t need him to. He could see know why Spencer had five degrees hanging on their wall, next to Sam’s already impressive three.

“He’s a genius then?”

“He’d say no,” Sam said with a small, fond smile, “but yes. Yes, he is.”

There was that look again. That saccharine sweet expression that made Dean uncomfortable just by seeing it. He’d _never_ get used to that look on his brother’s face, a look that spoke to a kind of comfort that Dean had never experienced with anyone outside of his own family.

And it must have shown on his, because one moment Sam was smiling towards him, and the next, he was closed off, his jaw clenched tight and his mouth turned down into a tense frown.

The one eighty threw him, but not as much as Sam stopping mid-step, having been quickly walking up 7th towards his place, and Dean nearly running into him in the process. He jammed his hands in his pockets, turning to face Dean, his now stony expression mirrored in the tension of his posture.

What had he done now? Dean wondered.

“Look,” Sam said curtly, “if you have something to say, then say it.”

Dean furrowed his brow, “I don’t… what are you talking about? I wasn’t saying anything.”

His nostrils flared, the way they did when he was getting fired up about something, but Dean honest to God had no idea what he’d done to piss Sam off so badly. “You’re a bad liar,” Sam bit out, but when Dean just stared at him in dumbfounded silence, he explained, “Every time I talk about Spencer, you make a face.”

“That’s it?” Dean asked, scoffing, “I made a face? That’s what’s got your panties in a bunch?”

“Think about it, Dean.” And when Dean continued to miss the point, because how could he not, with mister cryptic at the wheel, Sam repeated, “Really think about it.”

He was! So, what? He wasn’t allowed to move his face now? It wasn’t his fault that he was uncomfortable, he couldn’t help that. He’d been stuck in Purgatory with nothing but a soulless vampire to keep him company, forgive him if he was a little rusty when it came to facing human emotions. It’s not like he was uncomfortable about their relationship, or anything…

_Oh, no._

“Seriously?” Dean asked.

_Unbelievable._

Sam shrugged, “I’ve been in a relationship with a man for as long as you’ve been gone. And yeah, New York is better, but we spent our first year bouncing across back country hamlets and red states. Usually, when someone reacts poorly to the mention of your same sex partner, it’s obvious why.”

“Dude.” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and at the same time, it made an embarrassing amount of sense. “I’m not a freaking homophobe!” he said, heat nipping at his collar as he flushed, ashamed it took an explanation for him to realize what he was putting out there, “if you’re happy, then so am I.”

He didn’t relent, not completely—he was still tense, but less sure. Apparently, he still knew Dean enough to realize when he was being sincere. “Really?” Sam asked hesitantly.

“ _Yes_ ,” Dean hissed, guilty defensiveness raising his hackles, “I’m uncomfortable with being topside, with seeing you… not your husband.”

Sam relaxed, his shoulders bowing in relief, and that just made Dean feel even worse. He hadn’t meant—he hadn’t _thought_ —

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, glancing down at his watch like he knew they needed to move on, but couldn’t, “I guess I’m just nervous. I never thought I’d be coming out to you, what with thinking you were dead and all. I didn’t prepare for it.”

“I mean, I was surprised.” Sam quirked a brow, but Dean figured honesty was the best policy at this point, “I didn’t know you, uh, batted for the same team.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam gave Dean the nastiest look he could muster. A relief on its own; if Sam was being a little bitch, then all was right with the world.

“Neither did I,” Sam said, with a tone that told Dean to leave it at that.

Then he looked at his watch again.

“You’re gonna be sleeping on the couch if we aren’t back ten minutes ago, huh?” Dean asked.

Sam answered by turning on his heel and speed walking like a Boca Raton widow on a Sunday after church.

They managed to duck into Sam’s apartment with a minute to spare. Quickly unlocking the plethora of deadbolts, Sam held the door open for him, delaying the inevitable probably. Dean half expected Spencer to be sat in the dark by the table, a lamp at the ready for him to click on dramatically, so he could demand to know what time they thought it was.

Instead, the only thing he was accosted by when he entered was the mouth-watering scent of fried fish, lime juice, and roast corn. Sam had to bat him out of the way as he stopped just inside the door way, huffing through his nose like a dog at a feast. It smelled _heavenly_ , and when Sam locked the door from the inside, Dean turned and whispered, loud enough Sam could hear him over the sizzle of the frying pan, and the droning vent hood, “You didn’t tell me he could _cook_.”

Sam smiled widely, his cheeks dimpling, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The lucky little shit hit the mother load, and he knew it. A cute spouse, nice apartment, cushy job, _home cooked meals_ … it drove an unexpected barb of jealousy through Dean’s gut, one he was quick to hide beneath a well-timed cough, pretending to clear his throat.

When was the last time someone cooked for him, who he wasn’t paying?

“Hey Spence,” Sam called into the kitchen, hanging his jacket up on the hook and motioning for Dean to do the same, “need a hand?”

Spencer, standing at the stove pushing something back and forth in a pan, didn’t say a word.

Dean winced, earning his umpteenth pissed-off glare from Sam that day. Someone was in deep shit, and for once, it wasn’t him! “Want me to give you a minute?” Dean whispered, Sam nodding solemnly in reply.

He turned around, wandering into the living room in a paltry attempt to give them privacy. The apartment was tiny, but since Dean figured they wouldn’t like him wandering into their bedroom (what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them), it was the best he could do. He meandered over to the bookcase, absently browsing, and ignoring the soft, murmured voices filtering into the living room.

Nestled between the books were heaps of photographs, which only served to make him feel stupider for having missed them in the first place. There was Sam and Spencer, sitting by a pool somewhere tropical, sunburnt and smiling. Sam and Spencer, and a pretty, blonde woman sitting in a booth at a bar, each of Sam’s arms flung over their shoulders. Sam holding a baby in his arms, flanked by Spencer and that same woman, all four of them looking nervous.

Sam and Spencer at the pier. Sam and Spencer in this apartment, but empty. Sam and Spencer by a sign for the Alferd Packer Massacre Site. Sam and Spencer at a lot of roadside attractions, actually.

There was a whole life laid out before his eyes. He could see them grow, change, their relationship building from picture to picture.

It made his heart ache.

He tried to pawn it off as hunger pains, that was safer. The smell in the apartment was heavenly, and his stomach growled loudly as Sam invited him to the table. Even sitting across from Spencer a few moments later, who watched him carefully, didn’t keep him from digging into his food the second his plate hit the table.

Sam was just pushing his food around, and Spencer ate like a bird, but it had been so damn long since he’d had anything other than gas station hot dogs and Slurpee’s that Dean couldn’t help himself. He tucked in, groaning obscenely around each mouthful, his fork never loaded up for long. Sam elbowed him in the ribs to get him to reel it in, but fuck him—

“This is the best—” Dean paused, realizing he didn’t quite know what he was eating, “this is amazing.”

Spencer smiled, his cheeks flushing. “It’s not _that_ good,” he said, picking at his own meal, clearly pleased with the praise.

“It’s the best damn thing I’ve eaten in months,” Dean swore around a mouthful of food, Spencer’s brows ticking up in surprise, “Seriously, you cook like this every night?”

“Well, Sam’s not allowed in the kitchen,” Spencer said, grinning in Sam’s direction, “so, if we don’t go out or order in? Yeah, I cook.”

“You should own your own restaurant,” was all Dean had left to say, before he went back to stuffing his face.

Sam shook his head, and Spencer laughed, both slowly relaxing, thank God. The tenseness of the day was starting to wear on Dean, and being pinned in by two neurotic nerds wasn’t helping matters.

“So, Dean,” Spencer said softly, tapping his fork off his plate, “since you’re not dead, would you like to tell me where you’ve been the past ten years?”

Sam put his cutlery down on the table, “Maybe we should let Dean eat before we interrogate him—”

“No,” Dean interjected, waving a hand at his brother to shut him up, “it’s fine.” He swallowed his mouthful, washing it down with a swig of beer just to buy himself time. He knew why Sam was rushing to his defense, and it wasn’t for Dean’s benefit; Dean didn’t care what this kid thought of him, Spencer was inconsequential to _him_. Sam was acting out of pure self-preservation, once again, and while that got on his nerves, Dean promised he wasn’t there to fuck up his life, and he meant that.

Spencer kept eating slowly, methodically, and Dean could tell that just any old lie wouldn’t do. From the way Spencer watched him, Sam was right to call this an interrogation. Dean knew that anything he said would be scrutinized, studied, and locked in the vault of this dude’s brain, and if he didn’t have an air tight alibi, both he and Sam would be done for.

Luckily, he was Dean freakin’ Winchester, Tinker-Tailor-Soldier-Spy. And since every lie needed a string of truth to it…

“I got in some trouble,” Dean said simply, picking at the scraps of his supper, “made some bad friends, worse choices. I backed myself into a corner, and the only way out of it alive was to…” he trailed off, shrugging his shoulder affectively, “make it look like I was dead.”

He flicked his gaze up to Spencer’s face, and— God _damn_ , was this kid made of fucking stone? His expression was passive, not disbelieving, not sympathetic, just empty. It was a poker face that would have made Chip Reese weep, leaving Dean completely in the dark. There was nothing he could do but continue to enjoy his meal, waiting on Spencer to see if he bought it or not. Sam was stiff as a board next to him, gripping his beer so tight Dean swore he could hear the glass splintering under his palm, but Spencer let them stew, taking his time, and drawing out the moment as long as possible.

Then suddenly, he hummed under his breath, pursed his pretty lips, and said simply, “Alright.”

Sam and Dean sat up straight, demanding in unison, “That’s it?”

Spencer nodded, taking a coquettish bite of his dinner.

And with that, the matter was closed.

They made small talk the rest of the way through dinner, with Dean mostly asking the questions, both Sam and Spencer steering clear of Dean’s happenings over his prolonged absence. That was fine by him; he’d rather not lie unnecessarily, and it wasn’t like there was a lack of things to talk about on their end.

On the contrary, Dean learned a lot over the course of their meal. He learned Sam was working on his PhD, something to do with 19th century American history, urban legends, and the “transference of myth into ‘new belief.’” Most of it went over his head, and the stuff that didn’t sounded like hunting, which lead Dean to conclude Sam took all the shit he learned over the course of his life and turned it into a career he was uniquely qualified for… which was, admittedly, pretty fucking smart. He also taught a few religious history courses, worked in the archives at NYU, and did a bunch of other nerdy shit that Dean didn’t have the slightest amount of interest in.

Spencer, on the other hand, was far more intriguing.

“What do you do?” Dean asked.

“I work for the FBI,” Spencer replied.

“Doing what?”

“Research and development.”

“What do you research?”

“New technology.”

“And that is?”

“Classified.”

They had at least a dozen of these question and answer sessions, all of them ending in Spencer calmly announcing something was classified.

“What branch of the FBI do you work for?”

“That’s classified.”

“So, you make like missiles and shit?”

“Classified.”

“What does the FBI need a dedicated R&D team for, anyways?”

“That’s classified.”

“Is it true the FBI uses abandoned subway tunnels to transport volatile materials and war criminals across New York City?”

That at least got Spencer to crack a smile. “That’s an urban legend,” Spencer said, and when Dean quirked a brow, explained that was “also classified.”

Shaking his head disbelievingly, Dean turned to Sam and asked, “What do you two even talk about?”

With an annoying little smirk, Sam said, “Literally anything else.”

Something else, then. As he changed course, he learned that Spencer spent his days off hustling hustlers at chess in Union Square, and that Sam was the reigning trivia champ at the bar downstairs. They went backpacking in Thailand on their honeymoon, and visited nearly every roadside attraction in the continental US. They supported Spencer’s mom, who was apparently institutionalized, and they brought her to their place for a visit the last weekend of ever other month, despite that her fear of flying meant they needed to drive to Nevada and back, twice, to do so.

They had a nice life—a _good_ life, the kind he had with Lisa, once upon a time. Safe, dependable, away from danger, and ignorant of the things going bump in the night. He could almost feel happy for his brother, that he managed to get here, to have what Dean couldn’t.

Sam was successful, the scholar he was always meant to be.

Spencer was brilliant, maybe not the spouse Dean had envisioned for his brother, but perfect now that he was there.

He wished he could leave it at that.

He wished he could just be _happy_ for him.

But then he remembered Castiel was gone, somewhere unknown, and Sam never thought to search for him.

He remembered that Kevin was out there, kidnapped by demons, maybe angels, or maybe even dead, and Sam never went back for him.

He remembered (because he would never forget) the howling woods of Purgatory, the constant running, fighting for survival. The hunger, the thirst, the weariness, and the interminable struggle he endured for ten goddamned years, his only friend (now brother) a vampire fit on escaping his own torture. He would remember never closing his eyes, never resting, driven half-mad with the agony of endless wakefulness, till the day he died.

And Sam never fucking looked for him.

He didn’t even _try_.

The speed at which he vacillated from pain, to cautious acceptance, to unadulterated fury was enough to make his head spin. And unlike Sammy, he wasn’t adept at hiding his feelings from Spencer, who seemingly clocked every downturn in his mood the second they happened. He would furrow his brow, a frown pulling at his lips, and look at Dean like he knew better than to say something, but wanted to anyways.

It was exhausting, and no matter how good the food, Dean was more than happy for their meal to be over so he could hit the road, and never look back.

Why then, hours later, was he settling into Sam and Spencer’s guest bed, instead of pealing Baby out of this horrid city, far away from his nosy brother-in-law?

He could hear Spencer and Sam arguing in their bedroom. The walls were thin, the city outside oddly quiet, and while Dean couldn’t make out any actual words, he could tell Spencer was hurt. Sam was barely speaking, only answering when asked upon, and Spencer, on the contrary, was talking constantly. The floor creaked as he paced their bedroom, his voice gaining in volume, until Dean could just barely understand him, when he would catch himself and begin to murmur again.

Spencer was in pain, too. As far as he knew, Sam had lied to him about Dean’s death for ten years. And maybe he believed that Sam thought he was really gone, and maybe, a part of Dean believed that too, but like Dean there was probably that little voice of doubt nattering at his ear. One that kept telling him, hey, maybe he knew Dean was _alive_.

And if so, why did Sam lie?

Or, why didn’t he look?

Their questions were basically the same, and so Dean figured that’s why he agreed when Spencer offered him their guest room. He felt a kinship to his brother-in-law, apparently, and besides… there was still the matter of Kevin to deal with.

He wasn’t giving up on the kid so easily.

Dean kicked off his boots, letting them fall to the floor as he tried his best to get comfortable on that god-awful bed. It was too narrow, too firm, and the light from the street hit him straight in the face no matter where he turned, but it would do for one night. Rolling over so he faced the wall, he closed his eyes, willing sleep on fast.

In the morning?

He was packing his good for nothing brother into the car with him, and they were hitting the road in search of Kevin.

Whether Sam liked it or not.

* * *

It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d managed to piss Spencer off, and he knew it wasn’t going to be the last.

There was that time in Des Moines when Sam had mistakenly got Spencer arrested for “stealing” their car, after realizing it wasn’t in the parking garage and conveniently forgetting that was because Spencer had taken it with him to his meeting.

Then there was the time he put dish soap in the dishwasher instead of detergent, and Spencer had to help him clean up their new soapy, kitchen swimming pool.

Or when he passed out on an alley mattress behind a bar in Chinatown after his research proposal got approved, so Spencer had to trawl the city at 6am to look for him after he failed to come home.

And then there was that time they were hiking in Yosemite and Sam tripped over a sequoia root and broke his ankle, revealing he’d also forgotten to charge their phones the night before, meaning Spencer practically had to carry him back to camp so they could get him to a hospital.

Point is, he’d done a lot of stupid shit over the course of their relationship, and while Spencer wasn’t impressed with him when it happened, they were able to move past it, turning his blunders into something they could laugh about years later. 

This, however, was different.

Sam wasn’t sure they’d ever end up laughing about this.

Spencer didn’t really get angry… he got pissy. He’d flap around like a bird caught indoors, respond to genuine questions with snide remarks, become increasingly panicked and shrill, and the level of passive aggression he could reach was the stuff of legend. Honestly, his colleagues could probably study him. All this to show that, while annoying, Spencer angry was still someone you could communicate with. Sam could always talk to him. 

But now, Spencer was silent, no matter the prodding questions Sam lobbed his way. Now, Spencer stood still as a statue at the foot of their bed, leaning on their dresser and staring, unseeing, out the window. His lips drawn into a thin, long line. His shoulders tight, arms crossed over his chest. Unshed tears glimmering in his eyes.

And all Sam could do was sit on the edge of their bed, staring at him. Hoping that eventually he would speak, and release them from this awful stillness. Though he knew it had only been minutes since they said goodnight to Dean, retreating into the relative privacy of their bedroom, it felt like hours. He was getting antsy, wanting to get this over with—if they were going to fight, let them fight. Drawing it out served no one.

He knew, though, that he had to sit and wait. He was the reason Spencer was perched across the room from him, stiff as a board, instead of curled up beside him in bed. He was the reason Dean was fuming away in their guest room, rightfully furious. He hadn’t meant for either to happen, but he knew better than anyone else that the path to hell was paved with good intentions.

“How—” Spencer’s voice was like the crack of a whip, “Did you know?”

“No,” Sam said, shaking his head vehemently, “no, I promise, I didn’t.”

“How—” he repeated, pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes clenched shut, “How is that even possible?”

The best lies had a lick of truth, John had taught them. If you need to pull the wool over someone’s eyes, give them something real to cling to, so they ignore the rest. Though, it wasn’t like he was _really_ lying, not about Dean, at least.

“I honestly thought he was dead, Spence,” Sam said, frowning when Spencer visibly flinched at the sound of his pet name, “The building came down, and he was in it. They didn’t find him after the fire.”

“I know the story, Sam,” Spencer snapped, gesturing to their dividing wall with an open palm, “but there he is! Alive and well. And his explaination?”

He was pacing now, the stopper that had held this back all night finally off the bottle. His arms crossed, he worried his thumb between his teeth (a bad habit he’d had since childhood, according to Diana), and strode back and forth across their bedroom, the floor creaking under his feet.

“Did you know?” Spencer demanded, pinning Sam to the bed with the force of his gaze, “Did you know he was in trouble? Is that true?”

“Yes,” Sam said, because that was a lick of truth. He did know Dean was in trouble—they all were, the whole damn human race—thanks to the Leviathan Cas unleashed on the earth.

“So, he was a criminal?”

"Yes."

"Were you?"

“You know the answer to that.”

“Do I!?” Spencer demanded, his pitch bordering on so shrill, only dogs could hear him. He seemed to catch himself, asking in a more reasonable tone, “Sam, your _dead brother_ just showed up on our doorstep, and you don’t seem the least bit concerned by it! Tell me, please, tell me you didn’t know—that you weren’t—”

He was spiralling now, his voice cracking as the tears that he managed to keep at bay up until then, finally spilled over, and Sam couldn’t just sit there anymore. Surging up from the bed, he crossed the room in two long-legged strides and pulled Spencer into his chest, wrapping him up in his arms and holding him, wordlessly, until his trembling shoulders began to still, and his breathing slowed down to normal.

Sam kissed his forehead through his bangs, and ran his palms up and down his spine, letting Spencer sniffle against his collarbone. He held him, just held him, until he felt Spencer tentatively raise his arms, which he’d been holding stiff, straight down at his sides, and wrap them around his waist.

“I swear to you,” Sam murmured against his temple, his breath wafting through Spencer’s messy tuft of hair, “I thought he was dead. If I don’t seem surprised, then it’s only because—stranger things have happened, alright? In my family, sometimes people don’t stay dead. But I wasn’t lying, baby. I didn’t know.”

Spencer sniffed. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t,” Sam said, resting his chin atop Spencer’s head, “but think back to when you first met me. When I was still grieving. Did that seem like a lie, to you? Was that not real?”

With a bone shaking sigh, Spencer pulled back, just enough that he could look up. “No, that was real,” he said after a moment’s deliberation, though he still looked entirely unconvinced.

Sam shuffled them backwards, until the backs of his legs hit the bed, until Spencer cracked a smile as he unceremoniously flopped down onto his bottom, pulling Spencer into his lap. He tugged at the bend of Spencer’s knees, manipulating and rearranging, until Sam had him where he wanted, comfortably straddling his thighs, his arms wrapped around Sam’s neck, a pensive expression on his face.

“My brother died in an explosion caused by a gas leak, while working at the Sucrocorp packaging plant,” Sam said, the harmless little half-truth he'd told a dozen times before rolling easily from his tongue, “that’s what I thought. That’s what I was _told_. And now he’s here, alive, and he says he faked it all, and I don’t know what to make of that. But I didn’t know, Spencer. If I did, then _you_ would have known.”

It wasn’t like he _liked_ lying to Spencer. On the contrary, he avoided it every chance he could. This was his husband, a man he loved more than anything or anyone else, living or dead, and he strove to be straight with him, always. But there were certain things, certain facets of his life and his past that he just couldn’t tell him… not without Spencer thinking he was insane. The kind of insane that would have him locked up in Bennington with his mother-in-law.

He couldn’t tell Spencer about John, about Mary, or what his childhood was truly like, without Spencer running for the hills. He couldn’t come clean about Dean, hunting, angels, demons, the freaking _apocalypse_ , without Spencer packing his bags and moving in with Will and JJ. There were certain parts of Sam’s past that he could never tell him—that was just a fact.

The circumstances of Dean’s death were one of them.

That didn’t mean he never told Spencer about his childhood. Of course, he did. Sam just left out Azazel and the Devil, and how his dad taught him and his brother to kill monsters. He talked at great length about his time on the road with Dean, about Bobby, and all the shit they lived through—he just left out the specifics of _hunting_ , just changed details here and there.

A wendigo became a bear.

A demon seductress? An ex-girlfriend.

His time in the cage with Michael and Lucifer?

A horrible year abroad in south America, crashing with two douchebags named Mike and Lucas.

Whenever he could tell the truth, he did. Whenever he couldn’t, he changed a few details, so what he told was as close an approximation to the truth as possible.

Did he like it?

No.

Was it the only way he could ever have anything resembling a normal, non-hunter life?

Hell yes.

And Spencer… it wasn’t like he had planned for _Spencer_.

When Dean died, got whisked off to Purgatory or what have you, Sam was lost. Hunting had taken his father, his mother, his girlfriend, his surrogate dad, his best friend, and now his _brother_. He was at the end of his rope, with nothing more to give, to live for. No ambition, no goal, nothing to fight, and nothing to lose. He was a shell of his former self, floating from place to place before he finally decided to just stick it out on the outskirts of Tennessee. He honestly believed he would waste his life away working odd jobs, until one day, when he decided he couldn’t take it anymore, he’d shove a pistol between his teeth and punch the clock.

Then Spencer showed up, and reminded him that there were still some things worth fighting for.

Sam hadn’t planned to settle down with anyone. He didn’t plan on meeting someone, or falling in love, or building a life of his own. It just happened, and there wasn’t a rulebook for it—there was no one to ask for advice, no directions to follow, no “How to Have a Happy, Fulfilling Life While Hiding your Secret Past From your Spouse: For Dummies.” He did the best he could, and met each hurdle head on, as they came up.

And for Gods sake, he honestly thought Dean was _dead!_

This was just another hurdle, he told himself as he ran his palms soothingly up and down Spencer’s thighs, absently brushing his hips with the pads of his thumbs. He wasn’t going to give in, he wasn’t going to let this topple and burn. Dean had promised him he wasn’t here to fuck up what he’d built, and he trusted him. He knew he had to make amends to his brother, and he knew the price would be steep, but he would pay it gladly, if it meant he could keep _this_ …

Crumpling forwards, Sam laid his head against Spencer’s chest, winding his arms around his waist and holding him close. He could feel his heartbeat beneath his cheek, felt the way his ribs expanded against the cradle of Sam’s arms with each inhale. And as Spencer walked his fingers up Sam’s shoulders, tentatively toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, Sam surrendered to his touch with a deep, shuddering exhale.

This was real.

This was his.

And God help anyone who tried to take it from him.

Spencer kissed his cheek, the press of his lips feather light and soft. “Are you alright?” he murmured.

“I don’t know,” Sam answered honestly, his voice muffled against Spencer’s shirt. Reluctantly, he slackened his grip, and rested his chin against Spencer’s sternum so he could look him in the eye, “I think I’m still processing that he’s really here. I thought I finally snapped when I first saw him—like he wasn’t real.”

“Well, I just had a three-hour dinner with him,” Spencer said, brushing Sam’s hair back from his face, gently tucking the strands away behind his ears, “so either this is an unprecedentedly lengthy folie à deux, or he is actually alive, and sleeping in our guestroom.”

Chuckling, Sam caught one of Spencer’s hands in his own, kissing the tips of his fingers tenderly. “I’m sorry for this,” he said, letting Spencer manipulate his hand, spreading his fingers and turning his palm, “for springing this on you. If I had more time, I could have handled it better, I should have—"

Spencer shushed him softly, tugging Sam’s hand up to his lips, kissing the curve of his wrist. “I know,” he said simply, melting into his palm as Sam cupped his cheek, his fingers brushing the soft curls of hair just under the bolt of Spencer’s jaw, “It’s your brother, I didn’t think…”

His eyes, heavy lidded and magnetizing as ever, tugged at Sam’s heart with the barest glance. Sam leaned forwards, tilting his chin up and bumping Spencer’s chin with his nose, and Spencer bowed forwards at his wordless askance, his lips parting in a pleased sigh as Sam captured them with his own.

The sweet press of their lips deepened, Sam quickly lost in his fervor as Spencer traced his fingers down his cheeks, his jaw, his throat. He inhaled sharply, hastily, reluctant to part from Spencer even to breathe. His yearning subsumed him, he needed to touch, he needed his hands on Spencer’s soft, pale skin.

Tilting at the hips, Sam laid Spencer down on their bed, the sheets still rumpled from that morning, after a shared shower saw them both running late to work. He blanketed him with his own body, his hips pinning Spencer’s to the bed, his broad shoulders shielding him from the rest of the room. And Spencer moaned into his mouth as he kissed him, nibbling on his lower lip because Sam _knew_ it would make him squirm, make his thighs flex against Sam’s hips and his fingers stutter as they sketched Sam’s ribs.

Because he knew _him_ , knew that when he shoved his hand past the hem of Spencer’s shirt and grasped his hips with his fingers spread, Spencer would shudder in delight. Sam knew how much he loved his hands, loved how his palms were broader than Spencer’s own, his fingers longer and wider, and when Sam gripped him, seized him, moved him how he wanted him, he knew it drove Spencer wild.

He knew if he buried his fingers in Spencer’s hair, and kissed behind his ear, he could make him whimper. If he flexed as Spencer’s grabbed at his biceps, he could make him moan. He knew every button to press, every turn on, every dirty, brazen thing to whisper into his ear, because Sam knew Spencer inside and out. He had ten years of _this_ , of Spencer Reid in his life, in his bed, and he would never tire of it, because there’s no way he could.

“I love you,” Sam murmured against his lips, Spencer’s wanton, grabbing hands sinking into the front of his shirt, not letting him go far. He kissed him, brushing Spencer’s hair back from his face, his thumb skirting his temple, his cheekbone, the shell of his ear.

“I love you,” Spencer echoed, laughing as Sam pounced once again, eager to put his mouth over anything else he might have half a mind to say.

Later, as Spencer curled up beside him, soundly sleeping on his chest, Sam held him close. In the dark of their room, the lights from Thompkins shining through their window and casting long shadows on the floor, Sam made a plan.

First, he would help Dean find Kevin.

Second, whatever Kevin’s fate, once they found him, he and Dean would be even.

Finally, no matter what, Dean would never pull him back into the life, ever again.

And if anybody, be it Crowley, Heaven, or the Devil himself, thought to lay a hand on Spencer…

God help them.


End file.
